a figment of reality's imagination

Banksy…

I love Banksy…not that way, not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.

We live in an age where rapping the word ‘fuck’ and rhyming it with other words makes a hit single and earns squillions of dollars.

A ‘painter’ drops his daks, aims his arse at a canvas and shits over it and sells it to some yuppie with a cardie over his shoulders for hundreds of thousands of dollars.

And where degenerates are making tax-free cash out of school kids by selling P who then pull knives on their mates and girlfriends and my tax dollar goes down the drain while an ineffectual Police force struggles with political correctness and racial prejudice.

And yet Banaksy makes 5/8ths of sweet fuck-all from his methodology (relatively speaking), makes us thinks, and then is branded a criminal.

I just happened to pick his book out of a ‘recently returned’ pile from my local library and having heard of the guy, and seen a couple of his murals decided to read it.

Read it in 10 minutes.

While it is more photos of his ‘graffiti’ it does have some words of wisdom from the guy which makes more sense than most. But as you look at the pictures, which are pretty bloody good in themselves, the irony, the dig at society, the failing of our social bearing is glaringly apparent.

And as thought-provoking as they are, they are bloody humourous.

I have never taken to a wall or structure and ‘bombed’ it in my life and have never had the desire to. Furthermore, while some graffiti shows talent I have been against the morality of it and the indiscriminate tagging of people’s property…but now the urge to do so right now is strong.

Put your ‘self-help’ book down, put away that prospectus, leave The Herald for a day and flick